How To Play Pool As If You Were A Good Person.
Posted: April 8, 2014 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: change, comedy, ethics, funny, good, life, morals, natural, nature, philosophy, pool, time, Weird Leave a commentBy all means, avoid the blue ball.
Glasses will smash, noses will be blooded, and conversations will be rudely interrupted, all on account of the blue ball not actually being there whilst you swipe full-force at it.
The red, yellow and white however- they’re you’re business. Like the colours of the flag of pool (we’re going to need one of those).
First things first, you need to step back, then forward again so as to assault the table in every sense of the word. Whether or not people are watching you- either they’ll remember you, or the table sure as hell will.
Then we’ll leave you alone, once we’ve dragged you away from the green and that’ll be that for a while.
You’re a good person now, so just give yourself five minutes to enjoy that feeling and then breathe deeply once and make your way back inside.
Although fact that the table is inside is part of the problem.
Naturally- you’re drinking throughout your pool performance. The violence is natural, the pool is natural and the drink is natural- all you need now are some natural surroundings, so a nice meadow in which to enjoy a game of pool is increasingly important now. Have yourself a pool table, and stick a meadow underneath it.
The reason for the act of violence being natural is that it’s svelte, not the violence, the pool table. The violence is not so much svelte as much as it is loud and eventually leaky.
We rarely encounter that which is svelte in our day to day lives. Apart from babies- they’re fairly svelte, but they haven’t got the arrogance of a pool table. If violence feels svelte to you- then you must’ve been practising.
A pool table will stand there as though it’s clever to have four legs and no skirt on, arrogant and obviously pompous- because somehow it’s winning without playing, whilst also swallowing my balls and not giving them back. It only gives the white ball back, but only so that you can prolong your own agony as you don’t succeed in potting the correct ball and wishing that the blue ball was real.
The house always wins, but you can change the interior before you are made to leave. This doesn’t mean that you should wallpaper the walls, but it does mean that you should take some wallpaper home with you, and perhaps a couple of bricks. The same method applies to pool. Make sure that this cheeky table remembers you- you’re going to lose but leave it a pretty little scar.
That is good pool. Though it may well sour relations with the next player who might well, and justly so, enquire as to why their pool table is scarred and why you have a mouthful of wallpaper. You’re appropriate response is: “Go and do likewise fella, now excuse me…I have a need to flee”.
So the violence is natural.
The pool is natural too, and ties in very smoothly with the naturalness of the drinking.
Drinking is natural owing to the fact that…here it is! Nature is a matter of opinion, with “death by natural causes” being the most debateable.
If I’m eaten by a mountain lion (fine- as long as I truly deserve it) then there really is little more-natural a death to be had by this talkative ape here. But, the police, and hopefully my family, would freak out at the fact that technically I died from being chewed. For some mountain-born kid in the…mountains…it’s likely that being eaten by a mountain lion is comparable for him to a kid in New York dying from being hit by a car. Tragic, and it doesn’t happen to everyone (someone has to be the driver), but- it’s not unnatural. Maybe what’s natural is what’s common in your habitat.
Drinking is happening all around; my town has a raging alcohol and budding weed problem. So it’s natural.
I believe that we have an urge to flaunt the mind’s capabilities when we are drinking, and so either some strong conversation, testy little quiz or a bit of hand-eye co-ordination is what we need at the time of the consumption of alcohol. This is why darts boards, quiz machines and pool tables are found in bars and pubs.
Conversations can also be found here, although they tend to be free of charge. Maybe they won’t be for long, as good conversation can be hard to find and lonely people are plentiful- a very valuable resource for those that sell things in the place of a social life. ‘Whoring your vocal chords’ is how it must be put, since ‘whoring your mouth’ is rather more misleading and much more popular.
All in all, to ensure you’re playing pool as if you’re a good person; be sure to leave the pool hall a little different to how it was when you arrived. Preferably with other people leaving their mouths open as they watch you waddle out with in a funny fashion because you groined the table in a moment of 17 century sexuality- in which you became so aroused by the sight of naked table legs that you grabbed a leg and beat it with it, whilst also beating, with the aforementioned leg,…off.
But how does this relate to you being a good person?
Well, aside from doing what is natural (apologies for not being able to find an alternative word for ‘natural’), you are making a difference.
Change is good, whilst change is also bad, eventually in a good way. If it hadn’t been for the horrors of the holocaust, then the best of human nature would not have been displayed, nor would we have the option to generally be against the holocausts- a cause most aggressively espoused by more good people than bad. So, as an aside, if you want to play pool as if you’re a good person, then play it whilst also being against the holocaust.
Make change of the world’s arse (GHETTO LANGUAGE USED IN WIT- THANKS FOR READING), and then things will be continuing exactly as it always has- constantly changing, hopefully evolving, possibly just changing- lacking a point for which to do so being the reason for it being so.
Sudden and shocking action, unto a room unexpecting it, is a favour to all. Particularly if you don’t know any of them as it is the finest of conversation starters.
Think of it as a social call to those few others that might be there want to contribute to the sudden action. Having a point to the action, let us call it…’momentum’…is something that might matter, as opposed to most things that happen, and do not matter.
Play pool as a good person by making a difference; any way you choose, but I recommend the sudden and shocking method as a call out to the people that might also want to leave the room, which is temporarily the world, a little different from how it was when you first arrived.
That’s about it. The ethos of ‘make change’ prevails above most others- even the one about helping old ladies cross the street- and change is natural, change is good.
You are natural; you are good.
Be natural.
Sam
The End Times…
Posted: March 31, 2014 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: armageddon, Art, beef, boat, comedy, end of the world, fucking, funny, grubs, insects, intercourse, philosophy, Religion, resources, revelations, sailing, sex, The End Times, Weird Leave a commentThe End Times are approaching, as always.
Bad luck- conditions of the planet. Nothing you can do about it, just let it wash over you…whatever ‘it’ might be.
So, what are the End Times?
Is it a time when you don’t want to be? A time where you no longer fit as you once did previously?
Really- I think it’s relative.
It’s time when we wouldn’t be comfortable anymore, like a 19th Century Klan member walking down a modern New York street, or a time in the distant future from now when the eating of the elderly is an essential and a jolly pastime.
Or perhaps if a Tudor man was to see an average car advert (the neon green car with models flipping in night-glow paints and coloured contact lenses). He doesn’t want to exist where this car is from- such bright colours and flipping are aspects of the devil. He doesn’t like it here in this advert.
Take for example, the situation of the cow and the ants.
Sounds like a moral fable doesn’t it? Maybe it is. Actually, no- better not say that in case this turns out to be an immoral fable and bastards start to refer to the story of ‘the cow and the ants’ when they’re about to be dastardly. Got to watch out for bastards. They’ll fuck up your fables.
So this cow’s trotting down the street next to eight million ants.
They look at each other and realise their mutual hatred and the fact that they’re going to wipe each other out. So they go about it.
And, following a ‘moo’ and a…’scuttle’ (?) and a thud- the cow is no more. Nothing remains- not even the eyelashes. How could you ignore the eyelashes of a cow? I want some- I could put them on the rim of my shoes, and therefore have nice shoes. I can’t think of another way to improve them.
This has little to do with why people are going to have to be eating ants instead of cows (aside from the mass of resources that a cow consumes compared to how much it takes the eight million ants to say “No thanks- truly I’m full, but the cow was delicious thanks”), but I think perhaps it’s a testament of class that we only eat the superior creature. “I only eat the victorious”- a pompous saying for pompous people, an essential aspect of the world- otherwise there’d be a lot less fancy French food critics- something I believe only exists in comics and film.
Therefore, being a little pompous is alright- it creates a food-market for victorious creatures, and acting roles for people with high-brows and large noses. Ants win on mass. They’re good at mass.
You could tell your children that. And then it’d be there turn to be confused.
A another aspect to this would be that cows cry when they’re about to be murdered, and ants…might, I don’t know, but at least the fact that it’s too hard to tell equates to the other fact that I therefore don’t really care. Maybe ants cry, but because we don’t see it, we don’t cry for those tears.
So ultimately,’ bye-bye beef’. Feel free to weep.
‘Good morning chewing antennae’- the essential cornerstone of any breakfast when there’s not enough resources to feed an oxen.
Besides, fewer oxen mean that there are fewer things to covet. You’re going to have to try to sin with beetles now, and I wish you well with that. They don’t cry, you know.
The next aspect of the End Times is that you’re going to need to get a boat and die on it.
Because aside from fishing, nice neighbours and sunsets, that’s all that there’s going to be left to do.
You see, you’re going to need a boat owing to lack of living space on land, and possibly because you prefer what mutated, radioactive Fukushima tuna is left over from what the fishing industry abandoned compared to seeing pickled grasshoppers in a jar on your supermarket shelf.
Not only due to this, but also owing to the fact that, aside from there being too many children to have a space to stand, there’s also going to be no room to fuck. And a large amount of pressure to stop making other humans.
There’s no way to ensure that enormity of a mass sterilisation process, and so fucking will just be frowned upon and in many cases prohibited by those with weaponry exclusively designed with reproductive organs in mind (they are either long, thick, with terrifying balls on, or they are wide and soggy with a horrific ability to totally encapsulate you, as well as hypnotise).
When you have to move onto a boat owing to lack of space, maybe you should stop fucking, but trying telling that to anyone with both the ability to fuck and nothing wrong with them. In most cases of anything, fucking is the best bit, so telling people stop is going to be met with a disregard most apparent when they start to fuck in front of you on the poop-deck.
By the way- I like to say ‘fuck’ instead of ‘intercourse’ or ‘sex’, because ‘fuck’ suggests a confidence to do as such in any mood (joy, hate, hilarity, shame). ‘Sex’ suggests merely and regrettably procreative motives, whilst ‘intercourse’ is used only in writing, by those with a fear of saying it aloud in case it suddenly happens to them and stains their clothes and upsets the cat.
So you’ll be on a boat, with little chance to fuck (aside from the mutant fish). And you know you’ll want to die. Either that or make it a weird religious thing.
Religion is going to have some issues when we’re all on boats and eating grubs.
People just aren’t going to have time to pretend this piece of bread is His flesh. You’d just be amazed that you have some bread that you’re lucky enough to be able to spend some time with.
I think that people being tormented by the abundance of salt- water and the lack of non-soggy bibles to bash is either going to send the religious among us overboard…in a good way. Maybe overboard is where Jesus. I know it’s where God is.
Not to mention that when the End Times come, the people who have been enthusiastically waiting will have a terrific anti-climax.
Waiting and waiting and then finding out that ‘fire and brimstone’ doesn’t really happen anymore is going to suck for them. And then the lack of an ‘arc’ and a ‘Noah’ is also going to sting when you realise that you’ve not been invited.
“Who the fuck needs lions!? We don’t need a lion- let alone two of them! I could be sitting where that lion is right now! That’s it- I’m going…out!”
Even the bible will fall into a crack in the ground.
And then there’s the situation with the art. Where will it all go?
Things that were of such highly valued importance- the Mona Lisa- will drift into oblivion like a fat-guy downwards.
The Mona-Lisa is going to fall off the wall and stay there, eventually be eaten by ants still not full from the oxen (sharing between eight million never works well), before finally being shat.
All things will be shat at some point. Just be glad you’re on a boat, not being shat.
Some things will last longer than others. Is that what will matter in the End Times? Should the things that matter therefore have been made of plastic?
Plastic art probably exists, and now that I’m all for it I’m going to have to find a way to become a patron of it. It’d be nice to have a wing…
In the end, will all that combing of hair have mattered? All haircuts will be forgotten aside from the now-and-forever style of ‘Fukushima-baldness’- you shouldn’t have eaten the tuna that couldn’t swim. You should have eaten the crickets- it’d be one less thing to hear in the silence of your hairless nights. On a boat.
Full stops will be done for- and that’s the end of it.
Disney Land and Auschwitz will only be remembered jointly as: “places people used to go to. One was better”.
The Beatles will become an entity that never existed and that people distinctly don’t dance to, and wood will be one of those objects that has no source. You might be able to get a piece of wood, but chances are you can’t climb it. Unless you have a forest on a ship, but then you’re getting into Studio Ghibli territory, and I’m not that good of a writer to keep up with myself.
The End Times are coming…as always.
Your End Times are coming.
Remember that, and maybe you can get some more stuff done. Get yourself down to that boat yard…install an ant-farm.
Otherwise- I’ll see you next time, at the End of Times…
Sam
Hats. An On Again- Off Again Relationship.
Posted: March 15, 2014 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: ethics, frog, funny, joy, philosophy, Pride, pussy, toast, Weird, writing Leave a commentWhen you love something immensely, you put it on your head.
I do at least.
In a manner of sheer ape-ish enthusiasm, the object of my delight is on my head and I am proceeding about my day. I do it in the bakery all the time (bagels).
I don’t seem to be able to help it. When entranced by an object, I have it as close to my head as I can whilst trying to keep the situation from getting messy, whilst also enjoying it when the messiness comes to a head…my head.
So I wear it upon my head, like a King wears his crown out of either love for the power or love for the duty. Or perhaps just the love of looking lovely in a crown.
Things I have put on my head owing to enthusiasm.
Buckets are an obvious example I’m sure we can all relate to, and this is probably owing to the fact that we get so content with a bucket around. A bucket- the archetypal vessel- has never been able to be replaced, and so in the presence of such perfection- we are happy, and we put it on our head.
You can’t beat a nice, warm bucket on a Saturday afternoon in the summer time.
In my opinion, seeing as how harsh the world is going to become in terms of surviving the future…buckets are going to become more in vogue than fucking, and that’s been popular since before there was a word for it.
So we put it on our heads (both buckets and fucking)
Why on our head?
Because it is notable about us- what we wear upon our head is an obvious statement of what we regard as important at the time of being viewed. Such as the king’s crown, such as when I am jubilant about apples (I also wear apples…because I’m really, really happy about them).
It is as if we are stating: “Yes- it certainly is on my head, just as it deserves to be. What are you going to do about it?”
I left the previous many paragraphs for about two weeks. This was owing to drunkenness. Not from being drunk for two weeks, which is beside the point, but because when I was writing last- I was somewhat hammered. Which did not help. Which is a shame because at the time it felt like it did
I was waiting for something to say, but now I know I shouldn’t wait. Nor should you.
I swear that sometimes you just need something to say and that you shouldn’t pussy around with the intimidation of the blank page and the feeling that “I can only write when it comes naturally”. Force those words and then you’ll be able to do whatever you want with that once blank page.
So that’s the situation. Write whatever you feel like and if a point comes out of it then that can turn out to be the good reason for it. Other than that- just continue doing things to keep that page from being blank. I mean- I started out talking about hats for fuck sake, and now here I am giving the down-low on writing ethics.
It’s not just about writing, as the philosophy translates easily to leaving your front door.
I caught a frog within seconds of leaving my front door three days ago, the broken toe I temporarily had was all forgotten for the moment, and the wish to only capitalise on the moment being lived was all that existed, aside from the frog.
It took a moment to pick it up, but other than that it was docile as toast.
What do you mean by that Sam?
Well, thanks for asking and let me get right down the brass tacks of answering your question.
‘Docile as toast’, which I have referred to this frog repeatedly as, is a nod towards the fact that the sheer amount of resistance the frog put up against my ‘carpe diem’ sensibilities of the moment was the act of being apparently buttery and falling.
Which is what toast does. It can be vaguely slippery and fall.
And then when it falls, it lands, and typically it simply remains. Which is what the frog did.
I couldn’t really call it a ‘get away’.
And so the simile works.
‘Docile as toast’- use it.
But I still had to repeat and utter and acknowledge and repeat the fact to the people that I encountered that day that I had caught a frog and that it was docile as toast.
The brilliance of the situation, the entire surge of the ‘carpe diem’ momentum that had willed me palm-wise towards a frog seemed lost on them, as was the simile- which I still maintain is worth anyone’s time.
To share the victory (called as such because I realised that technically I hadn’t lost anything) was a fubar point to these people.
I had to carry the joy that was temporary with me so as to make it from my front door of that morning until the next victory occurred.
Sometimes, that has to happen.
No one else ‘gets’ the joy, and so you have to be a little more joyous- not that you should keep smiling too much otherwise it will ruin everything you. Looking like a psycho only works is a few stabby little circles.
To re-iterate though, you should not forget that when you were putting that frog on your head because you were happy about it- it was more than an act of doing what you wanted with the blank page of your day- it was an act that might have led to a good reason.
Your ‘good reason’, your ‘point’, is our own meaning of life, and it is only likely to happen when you push and smile.
Do whatever you want to that blank page, discover if a ‘good reason’ happens afterwards and then put the consequences on your head because you love it. And keep pushing and smiling, but don’t smile too much.
If you want…
So, that’s where you get to with a blank page that you bully into being whatever you want, then talk about the importance of putting that pride and joy on your head, followed finally by saying you should apply this to your waking life as well. You get a blog, and you get that blog because you weren’t being a pussy.
Here’s another point, applicable to some other subject if not this one…I like the wording of it though- I might use it next time:
Sons and daughters of the land, throughout your lives, every proud moment of yours that your parents have rejoiced in, your mother has deep-down experienced the ultimate ‘emotion’ of “my-fanny-did-that”. Well done her.
That’s it- I found my good reason…I might print this and put it on my head. I hope you find your good reason too.
Don’t be a pussy with a blank page.
Sam.
How To Avoid Being ‘The Public’.
Posted: February 9, 2014 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Art, cats, communication, Community, Culture, funk, funny, internet, madness, public, totem poles, Weird Leave a commentI am about to begin detailing a totem pole with a chisel and mallet, and I have three reasons for doing this.
The first two are short and blunt.
- I’ll get some blisters, which is masculine, which is attractive to a certain degree of woman, which is a feeling which is just swell.
- I get a totem pole out of it, and therefore get a phallus shaped thing with which to out-do my other phallus shaped things (such as that actual phallus I have- had it for years).
- This, and such acts like this, are a tremendous way by which to avoid the label of, and very act of becoming, ‘the public’.
The third one is, I believe, the ‘nub’ of the matter. Possibly ‘the nub’. Maybe even the ‘knub’.
Let me explain why this is essential. Essential like music. Music called ‘knub’.
You don’t want to be the public. Even children don’t want to be the public and they’re the people that the idea is aimed at.
The only people that want to be the public are paranoid stoners that fear that somehow they’re a criminal and now they just want to be back to being part of the public- watching Countdown before the ‘just-because-you’re-paranoid’ police kick your door down and don’t let you finish your cereal.
This kind of collectiveness is what often comes from fear.
That’s why it’s aimed at children.
Because children are not encouraged to do things differently and it’s very easy to scare them. And they have a tendency to do things differently and are brave.
Some people feel a need to put a stop to that. Largely because it’s different, and they are scared of that.
Maybe that could go on the totem pole. Needs an image though. Maybe…a baby…eating a snake. Perfect. That’s brave, and fairly hip. ‘What an infant!’
I feel that another way to avoid, or regress from, your transformation into ‘the public’ is to indulge heavily in those aspects of life that you will not see on television. Such as conversation.
Be interested, and you will become interesting. Become interesting, and that’s about all you need in life apart from a small fire, a sharp stick, a thick book and a good-sized infant to eat away all encompassing snakes.
This is most unlike ‘the public’- the opinion of which is sought only in bulk. What one of ‘the public’ feels is of little consequence, whereas- on mass- these ants will topple over that much detested (at least amongst ants) rubber-tree plant.
You go walking, or indeed move in any way, and talk to strangers as you go. Your day will then improve. Even if you gained a little strain, or perhaps some woe, at least now it’s a variety of woe that you might be more impressive to those listening- as you list your recent activities to your ‘even-more-recent acquaintances’, encountered via a short stroll.
Today, my ears were sieged by the dialogue of one man who suddenly realised that I would be empathic to the point of sympathy as he let me know about how his headlights were wonky and he had to be patient to straighten them.
This man was one of those men with whom one feels a need to reach for the chalk and board to get across your point of “Good morning”. Yet he somehow saw in me something that perhaps suggested that I too had recent or historical laments with my own headlights, or the headlights of a loved one or work colleague. Or maybe he was just looking to gain a little of that sweet bag of mixed nuts known as ‘conversation’.
Nutty.
I agreed with him in everything he said, guaranteed him that I would be patient too, and patted him on the shoulder whilst assuring him that everything about this was normal and that all he had to do was keep doing what he was doing, if perhaps only in an alternative shopping aisle.
As I left with my sushi, a cat I had endured a disagreement with the night before crossed my path, to which we exchanged similar noises (I’m not sure which of us was copying the other- I like to think that I was the trend setter here)and I gave him my fresh salmon.
The cat smelled it, bit it, took it and then ran away with many glances back with a look in its eyes that let out its sheer terror at the idea that I might possess the audacity to attempt to reclaim my own fresh salmon.
I did have the audacity, audacity in spades, but I thought I’d leave it there in the hope that, at the next encounter, we might trade some more-conciliatory noises, as well as some more fresh fish.
If all of this hadn’t happened then I would be sad and with two less stories to tell.
Now, this man and this cat are not ‘the public’.
One is a cat, and the other is a ‘madman’.
Good.
Whereas being a cat is no longer an option (since you’ve been a human being for SO long now), the act of ‘madness’ is a viable choice for those that wish to know a little more about the world around them, by assuming there is more to know of a person than their job, address and make of car.
Acts of madness.
Living in a super-tribe of hundreds, thousands and millions, means that people are unable to persist with their natural instincts of knowing intimately every member of what should be your village-sized community of a few dozen people at most.
We can’t even do this at our places of work since too many people equates to too little communication. And that’s why people shoot other people they haven’t met yet.
Now, one may find oneself a niche group of people suited to their particular styles, outlooks and shared history (friends)- something that is increasingly easier with the routes of the internet, but I have a recommendation for dealing with this whilst without friends and away from a computer.
Make it…a little more…funky.
Talk and do. Ask questions to everybody and let them know about your day (but make it funny otherwise they’ll distinctly move further away).
Always help people that are next to you, whether they appear to need it or not. And now, knowing this, when offered help, or when a stranger to you seeks to be one no longer- embrace what they’re doing and be, as we all should, a little more funky.
By decimating the lack of communication bridges with a Golden Gate sized mother-fucker of a conversation starter, you will eliminate the public, and be introduced to a person.
Gather quickly their name and intentions, share yours too, and then make with speed to their destination and help lessen their load and increase the shared information.
This is essentially the best of the internet- without computers.
One can also use totem poles for this.
Carving in the phallus, or perhaps the now famous tree-graffiti symbol I espoused of: “AAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH” should have the ultimate announcement of “SOMEONE’S HERE”. “And we’ve got totem poles”.
Find out more about this here: https://samsywoodsy.com/2013/11/06/how-many-as-is-appropriate/
By sticking up this carved log from the Earth to the sky- you are sticking out the fact that you are here, not one of the public.
“No public here”.
These, and similar acts (meaning anything that the people that refer to us as ‘the public’ don’t expect), are methods by which to avoid becoming ‘the public’, and I recommend them.
Don’t fall into the kind of collectiveness that the term ‘the public’ refers to.
Instead, take part in another collectiveness- but make this one with which you walk down the street and get involved with people, safe in the knowledge that this person is no longer the public. They are now Steve, and Steve knows an excruciating amount about mushrooms, and soon you will too.
You can refer mushroom issues to your good buddy Steve now. Because you spoke.
Be interested and you will become interesting.
Eventually you might even be able to thrill yourself.
My totem pole is unquestionably going to be phallic, and that is the only kind of classiness that we all need.
My totem pole is classy.
How’s yours?
Sam
How To Tell If You’re Vomiting.
Posted: January 20, 2014 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: advice, comedy, funny, health, Humour, ill, illness, sick, sickness, singing, sleeping habits, spam, vomit, vomiting, Weird Leave a commentMainly, and most gratefully, there is that feeling of serenity that comes with the end of your internal expulsion.
Of course, this serenity is only some kind of a return to normality, as the beads of sweat wind their way down your brow, stinging your eyes, further down to and between your lips, now introducing a salty taste to the one that lingered- the flavour of the digested.
I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling descriptive today. How descriptive am I feeling? I don’t know- the feeling’s passed.
I have a habit of vomiting when I am unwell. People say that about me- “Must be unwell, I can hear him vomiting again. I hope he’s aiming it at something I don’t treasure much”.
That’s not all they say about me. I have many styles aside from throwing up, but it is the manner in which I do it that is memorable to those nearby. At least within earshot.
You see, it’s the same thing as my night-murmuring.
Lying on my back as I sleep in my bed each night (which I hear is fairly common) the breathing that I partake in makes mischief with those nearby. Again- at least within earshot.
As the breath makes its way from the lung out through the mouth, it trembles my vocal chords, causing me then to murmur.
“Eeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr”.
Sometimes…“Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh”.
I apparently have very little interesting to say when I’m sleeping, or perhaps I’m simply dreaming about really hard sums and am letting people know by such inglorious vocals.
Either way, a quick jab into no particular part of me (aside from my coccyx…please spare my coccyx) generally causes me enough discomfort to either delay that pesky breathing for a while longer, or to adjust so that I breath at an alternative angle.
So as in the night- I murmur, throughout an illness I…sing…up.
On its way up and out, my vocal chords have a tendency to yelp in a muffled, ‘vomity’-way. Things really don’t tend to happen in a ‘vomity’ way unless vomit is directly involved. Let’s make the most of the term whilst we’re on the topic.
‘Vomity’ I am during this spell of sickness, and my singing voice is distinctly out of key, and distinctly out of place as I bend my body over the porcelain and dedicate this next number to all the pretty girls in the house.
They don’t appreciate the dedication.
One of my favourites is ‘Devil in Disguise’. The soft parts of: ‘She looks like an angel, walks like an angel’ are perfect for the warped blubbering that follows each rendition. Also, ‘Time to Say Goodbye’, as it is quite emotionally fitting and by the end I really am keen to leave.
This was how I spent my past week- filling receptacles up with substances that once looked so delicious and now I wish I’d never met. Dizzy without the fun bit and aching without the fun bit.
This left me time to contemplate samsywoodsy.com (you might have heard of it).
What direction was I to take my writing in next? What was I writing this for? What ultimate ambition did I have, if any?
I thought about this for about two weeks and then it hit me- SPAM.
I truly believe that there is little difference between SPAM and our good old friend- billboard advertising. The only real difference is the difficulty I’ve had in drawing hilarious moustaches on SPAM, being tricky as it is to do very much with the contents of an email account other than the most radical option of ‘forwarding’. ‘Forwarding’ is also difficult to do with a 13 by 26 foot poster.
The essential similarity of the two is that they share the strategy of completely random ramming of product information into the information/literal highway in the hope that ‘people-might-look’.
Therefore, you will find me (in the format of samsywoodsy.com), throughout the comments of all Facebook and Twitter pages that you might happen to encounter.
My comment will be: ‘Even I Don’t Know If I’m SPAM’, which will then link to an article from the site. This comment denotes my innocence on the matter.
My ambition is now evident- I want you all to look at me. You could probably tell by the way in which I sing as I vomit.
Aside from ‘Waiting For Ambition’ (https://samsywoodsy.com/2013/02/20/waiting-for-ambition/), as I lay upon my sofa, essentially just leaking, I also felt the need to go outside for the air that is fresh.
Walking down (or up- I have no idea) the high-street I realised that I was out of the house at the same time as those people. The ones that walk slowly and constantly look surprised by the smell.
It made me glad that I go somewhere to work for a living, because I don’t think I’d be able to mingle like this every weekday. I saw two men having a conversation purely through pointing. I think they were arguing.
If you ever encounter these people- it’s probably because you’re vomiting and you should hurry home to sing some more songs. I’m trying to make Johnny Cash’s ‘Jackson’ work, but it doesn’t seem to suit the format. Cash never suited ‘vomity’- he preferred to wear black.
For next time, I hope to write about a totem-pole that I am carving. You’ll find out by reading your Facebook timeline.
I’m making a totem pole. Conditions are perfect. If you don’t have these conditions…get them. Then make a totem pole.
Sam.
How To Watch Wrestling.
Posted: December 15, 2013 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: 90's, comedy, funny, nostalgia, pop-culture, Popular Culture, pro wrestling, Society, Sociology, Weird, Wrestling, wwe Leave a commentI make all sorts of noises when I’m watching wrestling.
Mainly vowels.
I watch a hilarious amount of comedy, and although I enjoy it beyond belief- I won’t be laughing for most of it.
I guess I just one of those quite quiet kinds of guy.
I am noisiest when I am involuntary.
And I am most involuntary when I am watching wrestling and I’m doing my ‘vowel-thing’.
Not just vowels though- because I’m a fan, and because I’m a fan I compliment and I criticise. And sometimes, like a true fan, I sometimes go quiet. Because…”ssshhhh”…I’m watching wrestling.
Sitting there, sometimes standing (I am excitable), I watch as I did as a child, focusing on the screen with such a willingness to let my eyes to lose their potency to see things at a distance that I required very strong glasses by the time I was eight and I’d become something of an expert. At least as much of an expert as someone that has no one to counter them can be. When you’re on your own, you’re normally correct purely as a matter of majority.
Now, first things first (which I hear is a fairly popular place to start), I am fully aware that wrestling is largely an act. The wrestlers don’t hate each other, the storylines (known as kayfabe) are…storyline…, and nobody is from a place called “Part Unknown”.
But I feel that the argument about the business being fake is redundant, OBVIOUSLY it is storyline and OBVIOUSLY (obviously enough for me to over-do CAPS LOCK) they aren’t trying to kill each other. They are, however, at times pushing themselves so close to danger that you could argue they are trying to kill themselves for your entertainment. The point is to NEARLY kill yourself; people will always like that about you.
The catalogue of injuries that a professional wrestler obtains throughout a brief career is extensive and, one would assume for a regular person, lifestyle changing. A blow to the knee like that would be something that men would tell each other whilst in a pub and promoting their appearance of manliness. It can work, but it is undoubtedly more manly to not refer to this at all, unless prompted to by others. This is what pro-wrestlers do. They don’t talk about it, they just suffer it and smile.
A specially designed steel chair being whammed into the head is something that most people could deal with, but afterwards they’d likely be allowed to go home from work, whereas wrestlers go to work to have this done to them, and although it is withstandable- it really, really hurts.
From what it would seem from some consequences, it might hurt so much that you strangle your family and leave a bible next to their bodies (for further info research BENOIT). Other times you might turn out like the world-famous (now perhaps more owing to movies than wrestling) actor Dwayne ‘The ROCK’ Johnson. He is healthy, wealthy and wise, and doesn’t look like he’s ever cut his own forehead open to make you happy. This process is known as ‘blading’, where a wrestler cuts his forehead to make the blood come out to the sound applause.
I have also watched local wrestling from the ringside, and enjoyed this enormously too, with the added spectacle of the more BRITISH side of wrestling which amounts more to size than muscle (these men’s skin wobbled a lot, but they consequently made everything else wobble even more).
It was here that you really appreciate the main formula for pro-wrestling. Kick him in the face as hard as you can, so that it is as loud as possible, whilst hurting him as little as possible. This happens nightly for some and all the training they can do is how to get kicked in the face and deal with it, and how to kick someone else in the face, whilst doing a flip (entirely necessary) and not hurting them to the degree that they cannot continue.
You can tell this is true by the way that they get back up again.
You can also tell by the sound. You see this, and you will let loose some vowels of your own.
I love this, the athleticism and the hard-knocks of it all. My appreciation is a mix of pity and jealously. Pity that your wage is balanced on your getting harmed as loudly as possible, jealously that you’re managing it whilst apparently still able to do rudimentary addition.
The storyline aspect is another criticised theme of pro-wrestling, and is another part that I am enthralled watching.
On the television, WWE and TNA offer this soap-opera version, whilst local wrestling offers the pantomime alternative.
The soap opera version has a tremendous ability to tap into the general feeling of (mainly) the USA. Looking at how in times such as the Gulf War- the main ‘HEEL’ (bad guy) was a disgraced US soldier named Sergeant Slaughter with his ‘manager’ (out of ring side-kick) of an Iraqi general named ‘General Adnan’– a man who actually went to high school with Saddam Hussein. His opponent- the American hero Hulk Hogan- would enter flying the stars and stripes and saying he was doing it for the brave guys and gals over there and that he was doing it because he was a patriot that loved freedom, Coca Cola, and the free market.
The two would wrestle, the ‘heel’ would cheat, Hulk would use his good old fashioned American know-how, guts and heart to push his way out of the ‘Arabian’ submission manoeuvre (actually called the ‘Camel Clutch’) and start punching the bad guy till people got the metaphor. The metaphor was that he was America, Slaughter was Saddam Hussein and punching was the beautiful export that ensured American victory in the name of freedom and further punching.
This was of course in the early nineties, and though times have changed the formula remains- stay current with what the people are up to.
Lately, people are losing their homes and jobs, whilst ubiquitously using social media. Therefore, WWE storylines incorporate wrestling characters that are bankrupt, being made to do what the evil ‘heel’ character demands in exchange for help with their mortgage. Or- wrestlers actually complain and fight about what someone said about them on Twitter of YouTube. Being able to ‘follow’ or be ‘friends’ with these wrestlers is magic to the children.
This formula differs from the local-ring wrestling, which incorporates pantomime aspects so as to bring out the cheers and jeers. References to suggested homosexuality of the opponent, hide-and-seek, arguing with the audience, things to do with testicles and references to popular culture- all these things can be found at a local wrestling show…and it works.
The fans, the true fans- truer than me, are a special breed of people. They are also involuntary, but they seem to really believe what’s happening in front of them. The typically middle-age-plus woman will have taken her young grandchild and will be yelling at the ring and staring with such burning intensity that she surely emits more enthusiasm than any latter generation.
She is wearing her favourite wrestler’s T-Shirt, and her toy- figure of him is in the glove compartment of her car. She could tell you how to watch wrestling with far more experience and sheer guts than I could ever replicate. Partly because I understand the business, and she genuinely believes this foreign man has hypnotised her favourite, number one, lovely hair-cut, always smiling and oh-my-what-nice-legs wrestler. And as I said- the other guy is foreign! Not even a foreigner from this country…from a dark country…plenty of sand. Maybe too much sand- the measure of a man.
I watch wrestling to enjoy the soap-opera silliness that can make a stadium erupt in gasps, to enjoy the pantomime hilarity of two men running around the ring and leaping into the front row of very-grasping women. I watch to enjoy the athleticism that these performers risk showing at the expense of never being able to do the move, or walk, again…and I watch to enjoy the part inside me that makes those vowels exit.
But mostly, I watch because I used to watch it with my grandmother- a lady who, whilst watching, would be far louder than I. Gutsier too.
Last things last (also a popular order). Wrestling is fun, and that’s all. It has no great message aside from being something to be enjoyed by the entire family. It is pantomime and I recommend it.
It is an ancient business, and when watching, on a TV or at a show, you’re going to appreciate why.
Either that, or have someone hit you in the head with a folded steel chair- that is definitely something you should try in the home.
Sam.
How To Get Some Of That Gay Marriage.
Posted: December 2, 2013 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Christianity, Cruelty, Dissent, Evolution, Gay Marriage, history, love, Religion, Society, Sociology Leave a commentI understand…that some people have a problem with another bunch of people. And that bunch of people…have a problem with that previous bunch of people.
The first bunch of people is religious people.
The second bunch of people is the gay community, as well as almost everyone else.
The problem that the first group of people have is that gay people want to get married in their religious establishment.
The problem of the second group of people is that they wish to get married in the religious establishments that they grew up in.
The solution is obvious.
Allow gay marriage.
No?
Oh I see…you have another problem.
You need to grow up.
To begin with, and I suppose…ultimately…not to do so is cruel. It’s true.
If you don’t want people to be a part of your religion, or to have it in their own concept- then don’t have a religion because that’s what people do with it.
Some Christians believe that Gay Marriage is something that allows a previously (often- still) persecuted people to enjoy both their religious emotions and their romantic emotions.
If, as a religion, you wished only for heterosexual people to marry in your church then you must, by all means and accounts, NOT be involved with children.
Regretfully, preaching works, and people will have a tendency to believe when they are told to as children (Father Christmas- don’t deny it) and then take it with them into adult life. Because of this, the homosexuality that arises inside them (which no-one told them to do or be like) is either pushed down deep beneath the skin and further into their hurting soul or these Christian couples will meet and seek to continue their sexual/romantic lifestyle in the essence of their relative religious belief.
In this case, and after the centuries that this has been going on for (referring to homosexual religious folk that suffered this internal religious conflict), the decision the church is making is insisting that people either suffer their dilemma emotionally alone within the flock, or that they live with the one that matters most to them and be in religious pain as they are cast from their place of worship.
Or…they could permit Gay Marriage.
Keep religious influence away from kids, and then those kids that are or will be gay won’t wish to grow up to marry in a religious context. To deny them this is technically to deny them a life dream that you (the church) instilled in them.
It is possible that throughout their lives they have been watching their parents, family and friends fall in love and marry…and then continue to worship as a ‘GOD’-recognised couple.
Because apparently that’s what ‘GOD’ gives a shit about.
My next point is the childishness about this.
You (you fucking big baby of a religious establishment) can change the rules.
Yes, you can.
You have been doing it for many hundreds of years.
Take, for example, the situation with the shellfish.
In case you’re thinking of the weird thing that might have happened to you that one wet morning with the shellfish- I’m referring to 11:12 (chapter and verse) of the book of Leviticus which states that: “Whatsoever hath no fins nor scales in the waters, that shall be an abomination unto you”.
Now- I know I’ve watched a vicar eating prawns before, and she looked like she was really enjoying it. Like she was really enjoying it.
No one complained that this was happening, and it’s not as though it was too late to stop her from swallowing. We could have found a way. We would have found a way.
You see, this rule wasn’t changed- it just became ignored.
And there’s another thing…the vicar was a she.
It used to be a rule that she that sought to be a vicar would have their intentions smote by the fickle church until enough normal people complained and it became painfully obvious that the sheer stubborn refusal was…childish.
You can change the rules, and you should in order to prevent further addition to your reputation for cruelty to those not part of the flock- especially those that wish to be a part of it.
Not only can you change the rules, not only should you change the rules, but you undoubtedly must stray from your habit of stubbornness and instead make course along the church’s typical path of dissent and evolution.
Dissent from the religion has been the means (and at times doom) for its many of our true saviours.
Those that dissented from the church did so by, for example, dissecting corpses. If this had not been risked by the dissenters, then medical science would be far behind what it currently is- many more people would have died from contemporarily preventable conditions and diseases- and we’d still be presuming that the heart makes blood.
Praise our saviours that persisted in the dissent of translating, printing and distributing the bible in English, the effect being (aside from the spreading of the words of Jesus) that those in supposed possession of supernatural power and privilege had their grip upon the balls of the people weakened and the minds (and therefore- power) of the people heightened.
Have you ever read from a bible in English?
And are you able to read and write?
Have you ever been medically treated and saved by the knowledge that the dissenters discovered?
Then thank the dissenters and also thank the church for if they hadn’t changed the rules then these miracles of dissent would not have produced the beautiful wonders that they have. Wonders like polio vaccines and punk rock. Wonders like literature and contraceptives (could you be any more thankful- you can read a rip-roaring thriller and then calm yourself down with a nice conception-free shag).
My advice to those that want to be remembered as the Luther of the contemporary church had best dissent with the cries of the people. This is what the church has always done- it has needed those courageous, cheeky givers-of-a-shit dissenters to allow the church to make sense. Also known as Galileo.
Christianity is a concept that has had to EVOLVE.
If it hadn’t evolved, then it wouldn’t be here still.
Via allowing the bible to be printed (and read) in English, by permitting forays into medical and astronomical science (not to mention physics), by desegregating the church and by finally allowing women to be considered as something beyond a possession and a means to more men, Christianity has become something that finally denounces those that denounce gays, and also ‘Tweets’.
For the church to be what it is now- old rules had to be forgotten and outlooks had to fade away, progression was necessary to survival, for if it hadn’t- the vital membership would have dwindled to none.
To the church I suggest you adapt now to survive, before the religion is extinct. It’s what you always have done, and if you don’t…as I said earlier. As a dodo.
Religion is based on fear and love.
The love is what we all know and celebrate- the means of progression (there is no moving forward without love for something) for the church and all things. For many it is the essence of the faith.
But there is an evil undertone to the religion which is present and obvious throughout its history and is undeniable in cases such as the Gay Marriage debate.
Fear of the alternative, fear of change, fear of being ‘made’ to alter your existence…and fear breeds fear. This is the cause for many to flood to the doors of the church as though it was the final seconds before the ark’s departure and you’ll find an animal to go two-by-two with when you’re on board. Fear and panic now. Think when you’re not afraid; which will never happen.
Be courageous and save your religion by abandoning the superstitious side of faith and instead focusing on several teachings from the second testament:
Love thy neighbour.
Turn the other cheek.
Treat others as you yourself would wish to be treated.
If to picket the funerals of dead soldiers owing to their sexuality is absurd, then to deny people happiness in their life, owing to sexuality…is that not surely obscene?
You have the right to your religion- but you don’t have a right to be cruel and that’s all the insistence against Gay Marriage amounts to- fear and cruelty.
The fear and cruelty will be abandoned and the either the church will be too, or it will evolve to be a body of love…which will care that gays marry only as much as it does that blondes marry brunettes.
The fear and cruelty will be abandoned, and as history has proven, love will intervene and that’s all we need.
Grow up.
Sam.
Women And Begetting.
Posted: November 24, 2013 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: attraction, biology, feminism, funny, Gender, history, instinct, love, male, motherhood, nature, sex, shoes, Society, Sociology, Weird, Women Leave a commentWomen are women. You might have noticed.
What aspects of these creatures are we all to consider as items of biological personality worth considering?
Things to be enjoyed and things to be remembered- in case they turn and gang up on you. These things follow. They are numerical, so I hope you enjoy that.
1. There is nothing quite like holding, or being held, by a woman. You can set yourself right into that zone of physical emotion that takes over when it comes simply to a pair of thin but unrelenting arms being around you. This can be accomplished by hugging a bloke as well- but as we know, when it comes to physical contact, and especially when it comes to women, females are far more preferable in terms of being appropriately lumpy. Men are inappropriately lumpy- the opinion of many.
Then we have the flavour of females. The sheer smack of hormones from one of those ‘whiffable’ beauties can send you overboard and inside out- both of which are admirable traits in a man thoroughly using a woman he should.
In this same vein we have the flavour of either pair of lips. The upper’s are focused around the sensation of touch (touching all over what you have been brave enough to ask them to) and the appearance. Making a woman do that smiling thing with those upper lips of hers- it makes you imitate with a compulsion that denies you your supposed intelligence and reminds only of the duo facts: that you are barely beyond a childish ape, and you are making this woman.
As for the lower lips- we all know about them. If you don’t- I can only recommend it.
I want to give those lower lips a medal, you would too. And the smell…is tremendous. There is nothing like the flavour of fanny to be promised to you for the end of the day. Penetration is the ultimate reward for a hard day’s work. Get into it and it’s hard to stop thrusting. The flavour is undoubtedly meaty, but there’s not much that can be done about that. If anything- it’s of benefit to the nostrils, the meat being sweet and the presence of that smell so close to your nostrils only suggests that the proximity to your own genitals is favourable.
That feeling…dear sweet heavens above…that feeling. It has been widely noted that the feel of a woman is the inspiration that makes us (being the men of mankind) do anything. You can even name it- anything you can name is something we’re prepared to do.
I like to refer to it as: ‘The Reason’.
It feels like you’re back to the place you’ve been trying to get to since you opened your eyes, and it feels like that in your penis. And it feels like that in your hair. It feels like that in your teeth and your hips. In your finger-tips and your heart and lungs and toes. It feels like…as I’ve said…’The Reason’.
I recommend it.
2. I was once standing directly between two women that were defending their children from one another.
It was stunning- I have never been so impressed. You could see the hormones steaming off of them in the cold air of the day. I felt like I was…just a male, caught in between.
You see, one of the children has slapped the offspring of the other woman on the play equipment at a local park. The mother of she-who-was-slapped made a point of approaching the child so as to scare the shit out of him to ensure this wouldn’t happen again, at which point the mother of the ‘slappee’ intercepted and then the literal finger-pointing began. And the screeching.
Being male, whatever that might mean, I made my way over to intercept, and failed the fuck out of it. I arrived as the screeching was impressive enough to make me go all meek. Both were very ready to kill and die as their instincts kicked in and the power of mildly-loud speech fled too. I think they would’ve been ready to eat each other as well. It seemed natural.
So, to avoid a fight by the mothers in front of their children, I simply stood between them and encouraged them to laugh at the hilarity of the situation. Neither conceded until I was eventually firm (and sweet-Jesus was I firm) and sent one off in the other direction.
As I turned back to the remaining mother, I realised she was pointing at me. With her finger. Screaming. I also realised that my knees were touching.
There is nothing like being told off by a woman. Particularly a mother. Because they know that they can wither you down to the raisin that you are whilst you cower in respect of their grapey-self. What comes next is their reasons for why they’re good at this. They have to be.
3. Women are a people living in constant fear, or at least acknowledgement of, of being ‘socially defeated’ by a male.
You see, men are bigger and stronger than their female counterparts. Their hands are larger, with a denser skeleton, a superb (comparatively) reaction time and a two instincts that are far more intimidating than we men care to consider.
The first instinct of men is to not get beaten down. Therefore, we are somewhat naturally able to beat the good-grief out of most things. We know how to hurt, and we will keep trying until we know how to.
The second instinct is to occupy women. To take them, have them, grip them tightly…to own them in quantity.
These two instinct are frightening. The first instinct scares us all, man fears man, woman fears man. The second instinct is one that men accept as an aspect of their nature, whilst for women- it makes them walk home in the dark quickly, a slight presence of fear being forever there.
Imagine, fellas, that half the species out there was bigger than you, with an obvious instinct to defeat and kill whatever is defeat-able and kill-able. And that you were one of those things that was defeat-able and kill-able, you will really, really appreciate just how rape-able you are. The guys out there that might have had no choice in who or what touched them might understand this.
Women are a people frightened. This needs to be remembered. Particularly when it comes to high-heels.
4. Heels are the female phallus, simply beneath the sole (it’s wordplay. You should know that).
As we know woman are a people tormented, not by the fact that they are small and weak, but rather more because they are smaller and weaker than their counter-parts: mankind.
Second-fiddle is a literal place to be throughout the history of womankind. The physical reasons for this have been discussed, so now we encounter the means for women to deal with this problem.
Largely, this means high-heels. Those extra few inches make a massive difference when you are required to look a man in the eye. We don’t discuss it, but we all know that the few inches difference between two opponents means something. Even when it doesn’t come down to blows, the sociological meaning of those inches is that (if you are taller): “I am the superior- I am the larger”, whereas if you’re…petit: “You are the larger, I am petit. Congrats on your success”.
So, those meaningful inches enable women in boardrooms and staffrooms and in all places of business to look a man in the eye and therefore- be equal. At least in terms of confrontation occurring in the fancy form of conversation.
Not entirely equal (and therefore, I suppose, not technically…equal) but it makes an enormous difference.
I have worked with women my entire life and if you have too then you might not have realised that nigh-on every single woman you encounter is in fact an inch or two shorter than you have happily presumed. Their height is a lie, and you fell for it. You mug.
You had no idea that the average woman is probably actually a great deal smaller than you. She has altered her appearance to change your perception of her, and more importantly, her perception of herself.
Women have crafted this tool for themselves to promote their capabilities in the dialect of eye-contact. By making themselves the same height as men, or at least slightly less short, they have been making themselves a presence physically considered in a different format than previously.
Previously they were considered as legs, bosoms, backsides and lovely long hair.
Now they are considered as something that might tower over you when pissed off- something that is unpleasant to collide with, not just out of manners, but out of the sheer mass being unfavourable to meet at speed.
Height-via-heels makes you think about that. Hair does not. Hair makes you think about one of the things covered in ‘Point 1’…something to grip.
5. Big Hair is just tremendous to have tumbling down a woman’s back, poofed up around her head and neck and tickling the light fixtures of whatever room they’re in. Big Hair. I want to get me some. So do you.
For me, Big Hair is an interesting subject as it is a cross between the high-heeled phallus effect that women use to become physically imposing and the simple suggestion of something so sexy that most men have no option but to achieve erection and have it stay with them for several days. Big Hair- visual viagra.
Women are then, following the sheer sexual power that such body parts and persona have on a man, able to walk away. And so these men, although they might be ‘with-boner’; they are very, very lonely. With a boner.
Making a man lonely with an erection is the greatest power that a woman can have. It is this power than makes a man go to work in the hope that the sensation might leave him and that the pleasure of ‘Point 1’ might arrive- all over him.
This is power far beyond what a fist can do.
This is the power of the species- controlling how we make more of them.
6. Babies seem to have quite a bit of pull in this world.
They seem to have their own power that overcomes all that a man and a woman can offer. Indeed- it is what makes a man and a woman offer all that they can.
But if you fuck with a guy’s car, his collection of albums or his mother- you can be sure that you’ve crossed a line.
You don’t really have this with women. The only example that women have of this, aside from if you try to tackle their man-friend, is if you try to take/eat their children.
Now this obviously this tracks back to ‘Point 2’ but I want to address something else in link with it.
Women…want…children. In the same way that men feel that perpetual need to go about the means of procreation, women feel the need to have a baby. And when they’ve had that baby- they will smell it and be happy.
You, being merely male, are forgotten about- you were only the means, now you are creep that is never going to be good enough for her children, because nothing is going to be good enough for her children. This is a good mother.
As a man, you are like everything else that seemed lusty at the time of sex, and afterwards seems kind of gross. A discarded condom, puddles of semen gone awry in its aim, and little curly hairs. You rank amongst these now and- no- it isn’t fair. That’s possibly why you have that need to move on and go about sexing the women you encounter.
What is my point?
7. The point of this all is that as a man- you are doomed to females and doomed to lack of females.
They are the entire purpose of you being here. Just as there would be no children without parents- there would be no men without women- and indeed vice-versa.
As I said before, women are women and that is fine. There really is little we can do about that and really there is not much that we should do about that.
All you have to remember is that their smell is hypnotising, their gravitas is undeniable, their fury is unmatchable even by the sun, their maternal instinct is final, they are smaller than you think and they are frightened, they might have big hair for you to look forward to, and they feel…just like a woman.
I hate them because I love them so much- fairly much the definition and a great way to end this article.
What all these aspects beget is one of those feelings that seems eternal from this side of the clock. It is some kind of love and some kind of nature molten together into this female character and body which gives us a reason to be here, rather than an excuse.
Women, begetting and what women beget- it’s a heck of a thing to stand and enjoy.
Sam